If I were your lover
by phfina
Summary: Fourth stanza: My kitten and me. A  phfunnily  phfinaesque ode from a panther to her pet, a pet who she likes to pat. But wait. I thought  phfina was supposed to be all panthery, not kitteny-like. Why does my panthery roar come out all kitten mew-like?
1. If I were to be your lover

**If I were your lover** a poem from a panther to you

_(Recited in the mode of "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" a poem by Christopher Marlowe)

* * *

_

If I were your lover, ... I would love you.

I would hunt you, and you would know you were being hunted,  
by the tingling you feel when you know I'm staring at you, but when you turn around to look at me, I'm not there,  
by the way my eyes rake over every inch of your body in less than one-eighth of a second, pretending, _oh, I'm not checking you out!  
_but very pleased with what I see when I look into your eyes, and very pleased with what I see, when I look ... elsewhere, ... everywhere  
... and that would scare you in some ways, and please you in others.

And then I would court you, and we would go out on 'not-a-date' dates,  
And we would do the things everybody does: nosh, a movie, a walk in the park, playing pool at a bar, museums, libraries, bookstores, marinas,  
... but it would be different.

I would ask you penetrating questions with my penetrating eyes,  
And you would see somebody was really talking with you and really listening to you,  
... and that would scare you in some ways, and please you in others.

And then would come the day, when you're dropping me off at my flat, I say the words:

"Wanna come up for some coffee or a movie or ... whatever?"

And you would, and you would know it's not just for coffee, and yes, there'd be coffee, or water, or ... whatever,  
... and talking about this and that, or ... whatever,  
... or watching a romcom or a scary-scary movie, or ... whatever,

But then, it would be late-late, wouldn't it? and you would need a place to sleep because you can't drive like that, can you? and  
... well, sleeping on the couch, that's ridiculous, the couch isn't comfy at all, and ...

And I am a gentlewoman, and I would sleep on my side _(but I wouldn't be sleeping), _and you would sleep on yours

... unless.

Unless you ... you know, started talking about your life or your mom or your job or your ... whatever.

Unless you ... you know, stroked my back or my shoulder, you know, just because.

Unless you ... you know, kissed me. You know, just a kiss, you know, ... just because.

But ...

Well, and then, well, it's been hard, you know? All this teasing back and forth, all these so serious, deep and meaningful conversations, all this ... this.

And ...

It's been hard not pawing you, clawing you, sinking my teeth into you,  
... lapping you up like water from a mountain stream.

And so your one little kiss ...

Well, your one little kiss ...

And ...

And then, well, I would have to kiss you back.

Sweetly, at first, _of course!_  
... sweetly, and oh-so-carefully.

But then my look to you, and ...

And my eyes would be smoldering, wouldn't they?

I mean, well.

I mean, I'm just looking to see if you're okay, you know?

I'm not in the hunt, I'm not ravishing you with my eyes, I'm not taunt, from fingertips to toetips, with lust and desire.

I'm not a lot of things,  
... until you look back, and bite your lip, and look away so demurely.

And then ...

And then ...

And then, well, the hunt is over, and the game is up, and you will know why I am called a panther, because when I snarl and pounce, and embrace you with my too, too desperately needing embraces and caresses and licks and sucks and kisses and rubs and ...

And I will love you like you have never been loved, and I will put my whole body and my whole mind into loving you.

And when we make love, we will make love, we will _love_ each other as we make love each other.

And I will love you until you are all loved up, and you will be satiated, exhausted, overwhelmed, drained by my utterly consuming love.

And this not only from the complete workout I give to every muscle and nerve-ending to your body, no, sweetheart, this is a complete fuck. This is a fucking serious fuck of both the body and the mind, and you will be consumed by the fire in my eyes and the passion in my heart.

And I will love you, as no man nor woman has ever loved you before. And years later you will remember our love-making, it will be incendiary and unforgettable.

It will scar your memory, as a comet scars the pitch darkness with its brilliant arc of light across the nighttime sky.

I'm not bragging: I know.

Years later, pleading emails from C_ and J_ and A_ and J_ and H_ and B_ and K_ and on and on and on ... just 'to see' how I'm 'doing.'

'Doing,' yes. I 'did' them. I so entirely 'did' them, body and mind and soul, that they are marked for life.

And when I 'do' you, you know you've been 'done,' and you will not know it now, but you've been marked for life.

Young or not as young as me, you have never and will never have a lover like me.

In bed, or out.

Because I will love you, in bed, and out.

I will bring home flowers for you today, just because I saw them,  
... and they are for you.

I will quote you a poem today, reading it out line by line, because it struck me,  
... just as you smite me.

I will quote you lines from my stories, and these lines will evermore be yours, and you will know, when you read my story ... again  
... that those lines were written about you and were written ... for you.

I will prepare and cook you gnocchi, and you will see my grandmother's hands as I kneed them into their clam-shapes, lovingly shaping them,  
... one by one by one.

And then I will clean up afterwards, and wash the dishes as you have that big meeting tomorrow to prepare for.

And I will love what you do on your job, and praise you as you create your successes and mourn your failures and strategize with you your come-backs, believing in you the whole time.

You will have no greater cheerleader in the world than me. When I see you, I see your greatness, your power, your shining beauty and creativity, your love and care, your contribution to the world in great ways and in small ways, in every way, because they are in your ways.

My eyes look to see, and when they see you ...

They see you.

You.

That great, wonderful, loving, caring, confident, intelligent, powerful, tender person that you are.

If I were your lover, ... I would love you.

But I'm not your lover, and ...

Well, ...

Sad loss for you, isn't it? You know what you're missing. Me. Me, who is like no other. Me, who sees like no other. Me.

And sad loss for me, isn't it? I know what I'm missing. You.

And you don't know what I'm missing,  
... but I know: I've seen how you see yourself in the way you speak to me, but I've seen the real you.

And I know what I'm missing.

You.

If I were your lover,  
... but I'm not your lover.

And more's the pity for me, and more's the pity for you.

If I were your lover, ... I would love you.


	2. Were I to be your lover

**Were I to be your lover** a panther responds to her own poem

_(Recited in the mode of "The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd" a response by Sir Walter Raleigh)_

_(Well, okay, perhaps not recited in that sprightly mode. Is there a 'phfina mode of recitation?)_

_

* * *

_

Were I to be your lover, ... would I love you?

Yes.

And, o! what a terrible, heartbreaking, gut-wrenching, agonizing burden that would be ... for you.

For I am passion, oh, yes, but that's all I am, and 'utterly consuming' is all too, too accurate a description.

Because my penetrating eyes and my penetrating insights ...

That still means they stab, and because they come from me, the iron on the tip of the spear is sharpened ... and heated.

And you cannot escape, or argue, or reason, or compromise yourself into anything other than knowing the words you said today

... the words you said last year ...

... the words you regretted you ever told me ...

are now right back in your face, scanned, parsed, analyzed, deconstructed, related to literature both ancient and modern.

And what you said ...

But you can't take it back, what you said, and when you do try to take it back, that flies right in your face, too.

Were I to be your lover, ... there would be no bitch more vicious than me.

And.

Were I to be your lover, ... o! the heartbreak you would feel, as you did make your escape from me to work,  
... but you would wonder, wouldn't you?

No. You would know.

You would know that every second you're gone is another second I turn that analysis on myself, and the drubbings have begun even before you've kissed me goodbye as you go out the door for work,

and they

just

don't

stop.

And you would come home from a satisfying day or a hard day or both, and you would look at me, and force that cheerful, friendly smile on your face and ask how I'm doing,

... and I would answer,

"I'm fine"

but that sad, wistful smile on my face and the same messes from the morning that haven't been touched would give you another answer, now wouldn't they?

And we have supper, and we connect  
... but we don't.

Because you say something into the faraway look of my faraway eyes,  
... knowing that I'm right here,  
... but I'm so, so far away.

And you don't know how to reel me back, and you've tried everything.

Everything.

And I don't know how to reel me back, and I keep trying everything.

Everything.

But nothing is working.

Nothing.

And we clean the dishes and we connect, doing the simple things,  
... and then it's time for bed, you've got another big day ahead of you. You need to sleep.

And I smile again that sad smile to you and say I'll do a little bit of writing.

And you swallow the lump in your throat, and you say, not begging, please not begging, "Okay."

And I promise: "I'll be in bed by midnight."

As I promise every night.

And you wait.

And you wait.

And you wait.

Until finally at two a.m. you turn off the light, not daring to go to me, because you just can't bear to look at me like that when I'm like that.

And I still haven't come to bed, as I had promised, as I do promise every night,  
... and not come to bed,  
every night.

And you wake up, tired, tired-tired-tired, to get ready for work,  
... and you peek in on me.

And you see me.

hunched

over my keyboard

my eyes squinting and bloodshot

an empty page, still open,

as it's been open

for weeks.

And you ask, forcing yourself to be chipper, and forcing yourself not to sound forced, "Did you get any writing done?"

And I smile and say 'yeah' and look back at the screen, staring vacuously at it, fingers not moving, body not moving,  
... soul not moving.

And you say, "Well, ..." forcing the air out, "I have to go to work, honey. Eat something, okay?"

And my slack-jawed eyes register nothing as you turn to go, leaving me again.

And days of this? Weeks of this? Months of this?

How much can anybody take?

How can you give and give and give and there's me ...  
nothing ...

And this I _do _write something, and I'm so deliriously happy, I'm in ecstasy, flying higher than any chemical substance has put me, and I nerve and I fret and I read my story, sentence by sentence, ... and you remember that girl who so enthralled you with her wit, vivacity, intelligence, and just pure joy.

But it's too much, isn't it? It's just too much as I just so over-powerfully overflow the space of the house, and then I wait for the reviews, and then ...

Then the downward spiral from anxiety to despair begins again, and you see me shrink into myself smaller than the void that I was before, as I stare at that blank screen with that blank page with my blank eyes reflecting the nothingness that is there.

The nothingness that is me.

And you say again, "Honey, why don't we go out? You know? Go out to eat or ..."

I snap: "I'm not hungry."

And you try not to worry that you haven't seen me eat for two days.

So you press forward, trying anything to reach out to me: "Or go for a walk, you know or ..."

And my empty eyes flash over to you as I hiss, "I'm busy!"

And I may say, "Look, can you just leave me ... look can you just leave me alone. I can't think! I can't think! _I can't think!"_

But you know my problem isn't thinking. You know what happens when you leave me alone. You know we can have fun together going out, and I do go out with you, actually, and not leave myself trapped here as you take the empty shell of my body to a concert.

And you try and you try and you try. And sometimes you succeed, and that spark is there between us, for just that brief moment, and we connect for that special time and I stroke your cheek, and say, "You're really beautiful, you know that?"

And you feel pretty, and you blush.

And I say: "You take such good care of me."

And you say, "Well, you know ..." and you laugh embarrassedly.

But then you see it in my eyes. That haunted look and I finish: "... but I don't know why."

And I look away.

And the moment is lost, and no matter what you say about me, only makes it worst for me, you tell me how smart I am, and I say with regret, "yeah, I'm smart."

And you say how pretty I am, and I look away.

And you say how _good _I am.

And that hammers the last nail into the casket, and I'm lost in my own hell. All alone, and you feel you're not there anymore. You feel the crowd of people talking and laughing and dancing don't exist for me anymore.

And you are right.

And so we go home, and you pat beside you and say, "Come to bed?"

And I smile my sad smile, and say, "In a little while. I promise."

And then I'm gone.

I'm gone.

Were I to be your lover, ... it would just be so hard on you.

And one of the hardest things for you, besides that you've given your entire life to me and got nothing in return except withdrawal, spite, bleakness and despair,  
... besides that ...

One of the hardest things for you is that you _know_ there is somebody inside the shell that is me, was me, that is good, and whole, and beautiful, and loving, and caring, and smart, and funny, and tender, and incendiary in her brilliance.

_'If only she would just let go and reach out, she would so ... she would so ...'_ you think to yourself.

And you keep waiting for me to let go of my suffering that I never talk about so you have no idea I'm suffering over nothing.

Nothing at all.

Just nothing.

Just me, and all that I am, and all that I'm not, and all the many, many promises I've broken to myself and you.

Every day.

And you keep waiting for me to reach out to you, or, _for goodness sake, to anybody, PLEASE!_

But you already know I almost committed suicide when I was in therapy, so that's out.

So I'm this tight little ball, trying to hold myself in, trying not to explode.

That's it: I'm trying not to explode.

I open up, just a crack, and ... it will all come out. All of it.

Because it has. It has. Oh, God, it has.

And were you to be my lover, ...

You would have to deal with this, with me, with me-this, day after day after day, seeing me fight to be generous, and sometimes, winning.

But seeing that it's a fight.

And seeing me lose that fight, time after time after time, and seeing those accumulated losses bear me down into the ground and I am swallowed up into the hell of my own making.

This might be the hardest thing for you.

Or the hardest thing for you might be staying.

Or the hardest thing for you might be leaving.

Leaving. Getting away from all that oppression, finally breaking it off, getting that breath of fresh air and freedom again. Finally! _GOD!_

And, as you leave, I stand by the door, and smile that sad smile and nod. You were a smart one, getting away from me, I knew you'd finally come to your senses. I'm so happy for you that you are moving on with your life, and I wish you all the best and know you will do so, so well, and will really meet the right person for you.

And I'll go on. I'll just go on and on and on.

Because why?

Well, there is no point, really, I guess I just have to go on because that's what I was doing with you here, and I guess I'll just keep doing that now.

Nothing better to do.

Nothing better to do.

Were I to be your lover, ... you would know, when you finally did break free and left me, that I am one of the lost ones.

And when I come into a room, I can light it up with my scampery, bouncy, giggly, exuberanty, funny me.

I can do that. I can do that.

And when the light goes out inside, snuffed out, it sucks everything out of everybody around me.

And you have been suffering with my suffering for too, too long. Nobody deserves this. Especially not you.

Were you to be my lover, ... well, you're not. And good for you.

Were you to be my lover, ... you're not:

You're one of the lucky ones.

* * *

**End note:**

In the book _Stranger in a Strange Land,_ Jubal Harshaw views with admiration the sculpture of the nymph crushed under the weight of the roof she was trying to support. While his friend remarked how cruel it was, Jubal answered that the other nymphs, standing so tall, so proud, so strong, ... what does that show us? But here, this crushed, piteous nymph, is she trying to crawl out from under this weight? No, she's still trying to lift up this temple's roof, she's still trying to be like her sisters and be liked by them. She's still trying. She's still trying.

At least _she's_ trying. I'll give her that.

See? Even as others are crushed, _they_ are not crushed. But me ...?

No matter where I look ... well, anyway.

_SO ANYWAY, _now you know why this is a poem in the _le sacre du printemps_ category. Explicitly: a girl sacrifices herself to the gods.

And ... hm, I'm feeling a bit existential here, you know? as in: existential crisis. So a sacrifice to which gods? Is that a pointless sacrifice?

Life. Funny, isn't it?


	3. Will You Love Me?

**Will you love me? **A request from a ... well, what am I? ... to you.

_(Recited in the mode of the poem Liebst du um Schönheit by Fredrich Rückert set to music by Gustav Mahler in his Rückertlieder)_

* * *

Do you love me? Why? 'cause I'm pretty? 'cause I'm young? 'cause I'm (not) rich? (yet)

Honey, all of these things are temporal _and_ shallow! They will pass, you know? "For richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health 'til death do us part."

But do you love me because you love me? _O ja, mich liebe! Lieber mich immer_ and I will love you forever, too.

I can't help that. Can you get that? I still love Julia; I will _always_ love her. Yes, she gave me my heart back, but she had it for a while. So did Cate, so did Brenda, so did ... and the list goes on ... and if you love me, truly love me, so do you. You have my heart, my love: always.

So, if you love me for this or for that, guess what? I'm so going to smell that! You think you can hide anything from me, or from yourself? I _know_ I can't hide anything from you, I'm really bad at hiding from just myself. You love me for something, I'll know. And, on top of that, then this or that that you love me for passes away. You love me because I'm weak and sad? Well, I'm strong and happy and fierce today. You love me because I'm young ... well, I'm gonna be old and wrinkled soon ... and that soon will be today before we know it. You love me cause I'm a smart little thing and write all this neat stuff? Well, guess what, I say more stupid things when I open my mouth than anybody else I know (so I tend to keep my mouth shut and be really, really shy ... unless I'm being a real b!tch). You love me because I'm pretty? How shallow is that?

Every person is beautiful, but I think I'm only beautiful when I'm loving and I'm loved, and loved not because (of this or that) but loved _just because. _And if you love me like that, if you love me no matter what, if you look into my soul and see me exactly as I am, and exactly as I'm not, and love me anyway, not 'because,' but 'anyway' ...

... then, in the face of that love, I am helpless but to love you back, and oh, what love! You love me regardless of the fact that I'm a b!tch or that I'm sweet. You love me regardless of the fact that I'm a proud prowling panther or a scared little mouse. You love me. Regardless. And I cannot but help to love you, and to love you as (toppy) George Sand loved Chopin _(so!_ the fem) — she told him: "I am not full of virtues and noble qualities. I love. That is all. But I love strongly, exclusively and steadfastly" (quoted from the movie _Impromptu__)._

You know what? I just realized something. Bella, in my stories, loves Rosalie that way. Regardless. Regardless of her external façade of cold beauty, regardless of her black soul. Regardless. And in my counter-story, _Bloodbuzz_ Rosalie loves Bella that way. Regardless. Regardless of her fatalism, regardless of her atrocities. Regardless.

You know what 'regardless' means? It means 'blindly.' "Love is blind"? No. Love sees the other person clearly, exactly as they are, and exactly as they are not, and still loves: "strongly, exclusively, steadfastly."

I'm not asking you to love me. I'm not. But I do ask this: if you do choose to love me, love me.

* * *

**Liebst du um Schönheit** by Friedrich Rückert (1788-1866)

Liebst du um Schönheit,  
O nicht mich liebe!  
Liebe die Sonne,  
Sie trägt ein gold'nes Haar!

Liebst du um Jugend,  
O nicht mich liebe!  
Liebe den Frühling,  
Der jung ist jedes Jahr!

Liebst du um Schätze,  
O nicht mich liebe.  
Liebe die Meerfrau,  
Sie hat viel Perlen klar.

Liebst du um Liebe,  
O ja, mich liebe!  
Liebe mich immer,  
Dich lieb' ich immerdar.

— `phfina's translation (deep breath):

If you love me for beauty, don't love me. Love the sun, for her golden hair!  
If you love me for my youth, don't love me, Love the Spring, it's young every year.  
If you love me for my money, don't love me. Love the mermaid, she has clear pearls.  
But if you love me for Love. O, yes, love me. Love me for ever, and I'll love you forever, too.


	4. My kitten and me

**My kitty and me. **A `phfunnily `phfinaesque ode from a panther to her pet ... a pet who she likes to pat. But ... wait. I thought `phfina was supposed to be all panthery, not kitteny-like. Why does my panthery roar come out all kitten mew-like sometimes? 'Sometimes'? Yeah.

* * *

I have a little kitty. Black, 'short hair,' is the designation, right? I actually wish my last name was 'Black,' so I could name her 'Jett.'

'Jett Black' ... get it?

Or I wish my last name was 'Jett,' so I could name her 'Joan.'

Yeah, she's a bit snarly, a bit feisty.

She's a frisky thing, a playful puss, always, — always, always, always — getting me into trouble.

And so demanding. Just ... such a jealous thing, I mean, she demands my attention all the time.

But she's nice, I suppose, for a pet. And she likes that ... pets, well: pats, that is. And when I pat her, she purrs and purrs and purrs, and it feels so nice, to feel her purring, it's so ... um ... soothing? when she purrs like that, and it puts me right to sleep, her purring like that.

And she's friendly, very friendly, when she isn't shy. And she is so super shy, she just clams up and hides at, ... well, shadows even. She's a tiny thing, so that's understandable, such a little, young kitty. I ... you know ... I was hoping for a fierce guard-cat like a ... I don't know ... panther or something, but she's just a little scaredy kitty. I mean, she's so shy, visitors think I make it up when I say I have a kitty.

And, well, and this is so embarrassing, but I don't really have a name for her. You're supposed to name your kitty, right? But what do I call her? I don't know. I mean, I'm _very_ affectionate with her, but I just ... balk when it comes to out and out naming her.

So I call her 'kitty,' or 'puss' or ...

... or some other things, and sometimes I don't even use words when I 'talk' with her, I just coo as she purrs as I pat her, and she snuggles right up to me and I curl myself around her, and it's like we're so close and intimate that you'd think we're part of each other.

My little black short haired kitty and me.

And I love her, properly and improperly, no matter how much trouble she's been to me and when she's gotten me into, and she loves me, even with my disregard at times, when I can't tend to her needs when I'm at work, or when ... well, ... I pay attention to other people's pets. She's not even (too) (super) jealous of it.

And, well, I have an embarrassing secret.

My kitty? She likes kisses, and ... well, yes, pats but ... nuzzles, too.

And some people would say, 'Ew! Unsanitary!' but I make sure my little kitty is well-groomed, and, well, you may think I'm a bit (a bit?) retentive about this, but I make sure she's cleaned, you know? Nice and clean, all the time, with a pH-balanced wash, you know.

My kitty. It may be boasting on myself, — you know how it goes when parents brag on their kids, and you're like, 'boring! change the topic, please, before I scoop my eyeballs out with this soup spoon!' — but I have to say she's pretty, and I like her, you know, most of the time, even though she's a little, hiding thing, and unremarkable in every respect, even when she comes out for a pat. Why? Well, because she's mine, and I may not take care of myself all that well, but I, like Rosalie, try to take care of what's beholden to me, as best as I can.

... and (oh, god, this was supposed to be a silly-funny post, and now I'm crying! Sh!t) okay, so I may not be the best caretaker in the world, and, okay, so maybe I'm the worst, but I ... but I'm trying, and, like my little kitty, I'm a shy, scared little thing, trying to be a panther, but running even before you say 'boo!' and my kitty gets hurt and does hurt others,... her bite is worse than her meow, and her claws, that sink into you and never let you go can hurt like the dickens (but no infections, so far, crossed fingers)

(there, I'm smiling again, at my own sad stupid little jokes)

... just like me.

But we try, my little kitty and me. We try. And our trying? It amounts to a whole big pile of what we are ... which is nothing.

But, sometimes, ... a lot of the time ... my little kitty is all I have, and she ... well, she's a lot more patient and understanding and kind with me, a lot more so than I am to her, or to anybody else in the world, particularly to myself.

And ... that.

And.

And someday, she's grow old and die out, much sooner than me. Unless she sneaks out somehow and jumps out the window ... cats do that you know ... or gets hit by a truck.

Or, ... dies some other way, and there are so many ways a scared little kitty can die in this big, big world. I mean, even just a look, because you know looks can kill.

So, any moment ...

But, well, I have her now, and she has me, and, well, you know me, and maybe she regrets that she doesn't have a better owner, but, ha!, who am I fooling, she's just a little black kitty with no brain. She doesn't care, she just gets pats from me (most of the time), gets into trouble, and then gets more pats, and that's a good enough life for her. All and all she's a happy little kitten.

Life is so simple, so uncomplicated, looking at it through my little kitty's eyes.

And I'm asked if she's ... you know ... fixed, and that's supposed to be the humane thing to do, but I just don't have the heart for it, to take away something that's what is her. So, you know, there's more trouble sometimes than others. Boy, does she ever get into so much trouble being that randy feral little ball of short black fur that she is, but she is what she is, and I could wish or hope that, but this is what it is, and that's how I take her, and I don't think beyond that, at all. I don't compare her, I don't hold expectations on her, I just take her, for what she is, moment by moment, and, well, she's like that with me: she doesn't take me for anything that I'm not, and she only deals with what I am, moment by moment. When I'm a angry, furious b!tch, screaming into my pillow and throwing punches on my bed, she pretty much leaves well enough alone, when I'm crying and crying and crying just looking at the knife, she just looks and looks and looks at me, but won't come close to comfort me, and that hurts, but she's smarter than me, by half, even though she doesn't have a brain, and when I'm affectionate, well, she can be _very_ playful, even joining in games when I'm playing with another puss ... she may even rub up against another girl's cat, friendly-like, and if there's no visitor with their pet, well, then we have private time to amuse ourselves, then, don't we?

My kitty. My kitty and me. She has me, and I have her, and sometimes that's nice, and sometimes it's pure hell, but we make it work.

I wish I treated myself as well as my kitty. Maybe someday, eh?

Ha! That's funny. I knew I would end up writing a comedic piece.

Hehehe. Haha. Look at little `phfina. So funny. I should go into improv.

Except for the fact that there'd be all these lights on me and everybody would be looking at me.

God, I think I'm gonna be sick now. Excuse me. I'm gonna puke, and then hide under the covers, snuggling with my little black kitty.

... and maybe some Scotch. A lot of Scotch. I just need the world to go away for a while.

A long while.


End file.
